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THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


R.Y"  CHITTED 

..n  •'-.:«*:.,"  Author  of  "  Ranch  Vend 


ILLUSTRATED 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YOSX 

TWENTY-THIRD  STRSKT 

•Cbe  ftiticfecrbocfccr  jprea* 
£909 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 

BY 
WILLIAM  LAWRENCE  CHITTENDEN 


Uhe  fmicfeerbocfcer  prcse,  flew  gorft 


^Dedicated 

To  all  Lovers  of 
BERMUDA 

The  Ocean  Paradise  and  Evergreen  Land — 

A  Sub-Tropical  English  Garden  at  New  York's  Front  Door- 

Forty-five  Hours  from  Broadway — 

Off  South  Carolina  Coast 

Winter  Temperature,  55°  to  70" 

Summer  "  70°  to  86° 

No  Fogs.     Flowers  always 


'  There 's  no  place  like  Bermuda,  for  here,  bedad,  we  find 
The  Isles  of  Maine,  the  Indies,  and  Italy  combined" — 

Says  Mr.  Lafferty — page  31 


Photos  by 

W.  H.  POTTKR, 

BAILEY'S  BAY,  BERMUDA, 
AND 
LEWIS  CONSTABLE 

HAMILTON,  Canada, 

AND  OTHERS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  No.  i — The  Bermudas  i 

BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  No.  2 — Harrington  Sound  .  .       2 

BERMUDA'S  INVADERS           .         .         .  .  .  .4 

TOM  MOORE      .         .         ,         .         .  .  .  .9 

BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  No.  3 — Walsingham  .  .  .11 

A  BERMUDA  FAIRY  TALE     .         .         .  .  .  .      12 

A  BERMUDA  REVERIE           .         .         .  .  .  .19 

LINES  TO  SOME  BERMUDA  LADIES  WHO  KINDLY  SENT  PUNCH, 
CAKE,  AND  VALENTINES  TO  THE  POET  RANCHMAN  AT 
CHURCH  BAY  .  .  .  .  .  .21 

BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  No.  4 — The  South  Shore         .         .     27 
BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  No.  5 — Joyce's  Cave       .         .         .28 
THE  OCEAN  YACHT  RACE  .         .         .         .         .         .29 

BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  No.  6 — To  the  "  Lysistrata"  .         .31 
LAHFERTY'S  BERMUDA  LETTER        ...         .         .         .32 

To  A  LITTLE  BERMUDA  GIRL  WHO  GAVE  ME  HER  COLLIE  DOG      39 


vi  Contents 

PAGE 

BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  No.  7 — St.  George         .  -43 

"LARRY'S  LODGE"     .......     44 

BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  No.  9 — Church  Bay        .         .          -47 
BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  No.  10 — The  Bos'un  Bird        .         .     48 
BERMUDA'S  GUARDIANS:      "  The  Forty-sixth  Cornwall  "    .     49 
GOOD-BYE          ........      52 

RETURNING  TO  THE  RANCH  .....     54 

WHERE  THE  WOODPECKER  KNOCKS  ON  THE  DOOR    .         .     59 
RECIPROCITY      ........     64 

A  VISION .     65 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

A  Lily  Field — Harrington  Sound — Hamilton  Harbor 

Frontispiece 

"Ye  Wayside  Inns":  "Seaward,"  Harrington  House      .       2 
"  Bermuda  Invaders  "         ......       4 

"  Invaders  "  in  Possession  of  Lodge      ....       6 

"  Invaders"  at  the  Lodge  ......       6 

Bermuda  Palms         .......       8 

"  Walsingham  " — Moore's  House         .         .        '.         .10 
The  Fireplace  in  Moore's  House   .....      jo 

Map  of  the  Bermudas  .          .          .          .          .          .12 

The  Bermuda  Hunt  Club    .          .          .          ...      12 

Bermuda  Fairies         .         .          .          .          .          ...      14 

Bermuda  Fairies         .         .         .         .         .  .16 

"The  children  are  fairies,  as  everyone  knows"      .          .      18 
Mullet  Bay,  St.  George's     .          .         .         .          .          .     20 

Harrington  Sound  "  Natives  " — Caught  near  the  "  Lodge  "     20 


viii  Illustrations 

PAGE 

St.  George's      .  • 

Cathedral  Rocks— Somerset 

Crystal  Cave     ...  ... 

Joyce's  Cave     ...  .          •      24 

The  Winning  Yacht  "  Tamerlane  " 

The  "  Lysistrata  "      . 

Bermuda  Scenes 

Bermuda  Scenes         .  .... 

.  "  Our  Bailey's  Bay  Post-office  "   .  •      ?2 

Bailey's  Bay  Tennis  Club    ...  •     32 

"Hilda"  and  her  Friends    .         .  .  -34 

Bermuda  Hotels         .          .  •      36 

"  Larry's  Lodge"      .         .  •     3^ 

Interior  of  Lodge       ...  .  -3% 

Scenes  near  Lodge     .......     4° 

Church  Bay  Etchings          ....  .42 

Church  Bay  Etchings  ......     46 

Yachts — Hamilton  Harbor  .          .          .          .          .48 

Regatta  Day — in  Harbor    .....          .48 

Bermuda's  Gallant  Guardians:  the  Forty-sixth  Cornwall.      50 


Illustrations  ix 


PAGE 


Presenting  Colors       .         .         .         .         .  .         .     50 

Group  of  Officers       .         .         .         .         .  .         -5° 

Steamer  "  Bermudian "  Outward  Bound         .  .               52 

Steamer  "  Prince  George"  Entering  St.  George's  Harbor       52 

Bermuda  Scenes         .          .          .          .         ,  .          .58 

Church  Bay  Church  .        ..         .        :.         .  .         .62 

Island  Memories         .          .         .         ,          .  .          .62 

"The  Strenuous  Life":  "Come  in,  Teddy,  the  water's 

fine!"           .          .         .          .          .  .          .      64 

Ye  Bard's  Exit            .         .          ...  .          .64 


BERMUDA  VERSES 


Bermuda  Verses 


B 


BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  NO.  I 

THE  BERMUDAS 

>-RIGHT  land  of  lovely  lilies, 

roses,  and  cedar  trees, 
E-nchantment  dwells  about  thee  and  in  thy  em 
erald  seas. 
R-are  palms  and  oleanders  woo  tropic  tints  of 

bloom 
M-idst  homes  of  purest  coral  and  bowers  of  rare 

perfume. 
U-pon  thy  lonely  headlands  and  on  thy  echoing 

shore 
D-reamed  long  ago  a  Poet; — all  hail  to  Thomas 

Moore ! 
A-  thousand  charms  surround  thee;  here  there 

is  health  and  rest; 
S-weet,  radiant,  rare  Bermudas,  the  Islands  of 

the  Blest. 


H 


BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  NO.  2 

HARRINGTON  SOUND 

[-ERE  where  the  world  is  quiet,  and  where 
no  trouble  seems, 

A-  soul  might  sing  forever  amidst  a  land  of 
dreams. 

R-emote  from  noisy  rabbles  and  fashion's  tuneless 
throng, 

R-ich  echoes  haunt  the  silence  in  this  sweet  realm 
of  song. 

I-f  bards  could  hint  the  music  of  this  rare  rap 
turous  shore, 

N-ew  leaves  might  crown  their  laurels  and  fame 
forever  more. 

G-reat  crags  and  lonely  islands  midst  purest  em 
erald  seas, 

T-all  palms  and  radiant  flowers  woo  whispering 
cedar  trees. 

0-ld  gardens  filled  with  roses  and  lilies  fair 
abound, 

N-ear  groves,  and  caves  of  coral,  along  this  land 
locked  sound. 

2 


"  SEAWARD.  " 


HARRINGTON  HOUSE. 


Harrington  Sound  3 

S-weet  incense  of  ambrosia  wooes  every  fluted 
air; 

O-n  crag  and  cliff  and  headland  is  beauty  every 
where. 

U-nique  it  rests  forever  unvexed  by  crafts  of 
steam, 

N-o  commerce  mars  its  slumbers  and  here  no 
white  sails  gleam, 

D-efended  pure  and  lovely — it  dreams  within  a 
dream. 


BERMUDA'S  INVADERS 

LORD  Roberts  wants  a  million  men  to  keep 
the  Germans  out 

From  England's  lightly  burdened  lands — a  glo 
rious  scheme — no  doubt? 

But  what  about  Bermuda's  needs — Britannia's 
loveliest  isles, 

Just  now  beset  by  alien  hosts,  with  arms,  and 
gold,  and — smiles! 

The  transports  are  all  burdened  down — the 
enemy  appears! 

Sharp-shooters  of  proud  Uncle  Sam,  the  Sweet 
Girl  Volunteers! 

Yes,  there  is  danger  in  the  air:  a  dashing  daunt 
less  band 

In  dress  parade  and  deftly  armed  beset  Ber 
muda's  land. 

Invasion!  yes,  that  is  their  game — they  ride 
through  every  gorge, 

Unmindful  of  the  livery  bills,  from  Front  Street 
to  Saint  George. 

4 


Bermuda's    Invaders  5 

They  flaunt  gay  colors  everywhere,  shoot  shafts 

from  starry  eyes, 
And   make  the  native  angels  sigh  in  this  real 

Paradise; 
They  capture  all  the  big  hotels — the  local  beaux 

and  all — 

And  they  will  conquer  too,  I  ween,  the  "  Forty- 
Sixth  Cornwall"! 
Ye  heroes  of  a  hundred  fights,  ye  warriors  from 

Soudan, 
To  arms!  Beware  the  Yankee  girl — she  "loves 

a  soldier-man." 
She  robs  them  of  their  swagger  sticks  and  buttons 

by  the  score, 
And  oh,  she  dotes  on  Englishmen  and  then  she 

sighs — for  more. 
The  dangers  ye  have  safely  passed  are  naught 

to  her,  I  swear; 
Bermuda's  Gallant  Guardians,  brave  Forty-Sixth 

— beware ! 


The  houses  all  are  filling  now;  the  ladies  great 

and  small 
Are  pouring  tea  and  bombarding  the  Forty-Sixth 

Cornwall. 


6  Bermuda's    Invaders 

Gay  Colonel  This  and  Major  That  and  Captain 

Never  Slow 
Are  doing  yeoman  service  now — aye,  marching 

to  and  fro. 
"What    are    the    bands    a-playing    for?"   says 

Fi-Lees  on  Parade; 
"The   gurls   is   ere!   we're   tunin'    hup!" — The 

color  sergeant  said. 
The  enemy  assails  Prospect — Montpelier  has  been 

won! 
Saint  George,  at  last,  is  sore  besieged  by  a  fair 

Garrison. 
The  Governor  is  in  retreat,   and   Justice  it   is 

clear 
Has  doffed  its  gown,  and  proudly  yields  to  a 

Queen  Volunteer! 


The  Native  Sons  are  falling  fast,  the  Masters 
at  the  Post; 

Bird's  Island,  aye,  and  Cedar  Hurst,  fell  to  this 
charming  host; 

And  there  are  others  sore  beset — romance  is  in 
the  air; 

Ye  Island  Beaux,  gay  gallants  all,  and  Bache 
lors — beware! 


'I-N'VADERS"   IN   POSSESSION  OF  I 


Constable,  Photo. 


"INVADERS"  AT  THE  LODGE. 


Bermuda's    Invaders  7 

The  Union  Jack  and  Stars  and  Stripes,  a  com 
bination  grand, 

Float  o'er  the  ramparts  of  the  heart  in  proud 
Bermuda's  land; 

Long  may  they  wave  forever  true,  in  every  calm 
and  breeze, 

The  Guardians  of  Peace  and  Right  o'er  all  the 
Seven  Seas. 


Intelligence  should  rule  the  world — all  anger, 
greed,  and  hate 

Should  be  controlled  by  Two-Power  minds  and 
taught  to — arbitrate! 

May  God's  grand  Armageddon  dawn — that  glo 
rious  peaceful  day 

"When  spears  are  beat  to  pruning  hooks,"  and 
swords  are  laid  away; 

May  ground-doves  nest,  aye,  everywhere — around 
the  cannon's  mouth; 

And  Northern  hearts  all  learn  to  love  God's 
proud  poetic  South. 

May  Peace  on  Earth,  Good  Will  to  Men,  ob 
tain  through  all  the  world, 

And  war  drums  sob  their  last  tattoos,  and 
battle-flags  be  furled. 


S  Bermuda's    Invaders 

Men's  hearts  are  growing  kinder  now — no  matter 

what  "they  say," 
For  Right  and  Peace,  and  Love  must  rule,  and 

God  shall  reign — some  day. 


TOM  MOORE 

'"THOUGH  the  Shamrock  may  fade  while  the 

pale  lily  weeps 
In   the   Over-Sea   lands  where  the  Irish  Bard 

sleeps, 

His  memory  blooms  in  these  islands  around 
And   brightens   the  Dreamlands   of  Harrington 

Sound. 
While  his  name  so  immortal,  resplendent,  and 

strong, 

Illumines  the  world  from  the  temples  of  song, 
Now  never  a  dreamer  or  singer  should  soar 
Without    bowing    low    at   the  shrine   of  Tom 

Moore. 
They  should  visit  Bermuda's  proud  Isles  of  the 

sea, 
Then  view  Walsingham  and  Moore's  calabash 

tree; 
They  should  hum  that  fond  air  as  the  glowing 

sun  sets, 

"The  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets," 
9 


io  Tom  Moore 

"The  Loves  of  the  Angels,"    and  rare  "Lalla 

Rookh," 
And   his  soul-stirring  songs   they   should   ne'er 

overlook ; 

They  should  read  about  Nea,  the  Poet's  sweet 
heart, 

Then  love  the  pale  singer  because  of  his  art. 
The  world  has  grown  sordid  with  grafters  and 

knaves, 
Yet  Fame  guards  her  wealth  and  her  dead  Poets' 

graves, 
"And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it 

rolls, 

Shall  long  keep  their  memory  green  in  our  souls." 
They   sang — aye,   they  died — and    their   spirits 

have  trod 
O'er  life's  mountains  of  care  to  the  Gardens  of 

God, 
Those  balm-breathing  gardens  of  peace-giving 

breath 
In  that  Morning-kissed  land  o'er  the  River  of 

Death, 

Where  never  an  echo  or  murmur  of  wrong 
Shall  mar  the  grand  notes  of  their  Infinite  Song. 


"  WALSINGHAM" — MOORE'S  HOUSE. 


THE  FIREPLACE  IN  MOORE'S  HOUSE. 


w 


BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  NO.  3 

WALSINGHAM 

'-ITHIN  this  ancient  mansion,  in  storied 

days  of  yore, 
A-  poet  dreamed  rare  fancies — all  hail  to  Thomas 

Moore! 
L-ikewise  here  dreamed  a  lady,  a  woman  known 

to  fame, 
S-upposed  to  be  Moore's  sweetheart,  proud  "Nea" 

was  her  name. 
I-f  from  beyond  that  curtain  through  which  no 

eye  can  see, 
N-ea  and  Moore  could  whisper,  what  would  their 

story  be? 
G-one — aye,  but  not  forgotten!    Ah,  life  is  but 

a  sigh! 
H-ow  soon  the  singer  passes — but  good  songs 

never  die! 

A-nd  though  we  must  go  Seaward  to  pale  obliv 
ion's  shore, 
M-oore's  songs  shall  live  in  memory  and  heart 

forever  more. 


A  BERMUDA  FAIRY  TALE 


M 


Y  dear  little  Helen 

And  Donald  and  "Rete": 


Your  message  has  come 

And  it  seems  very  sweet, 

For  you  sent  me  your  love 
On  a  cute  little  card 

Displaying  a  house 

In  a  cute  little  yard. 

And  is  that  your  "Villa" 
Where  mulberries  grow 

In  the  beautiful  land 

Where  you  never  have  snow? 

Those  beautiful  islands 
I  long  for  to-day* 

Published  by  special  request  in  Bermuda  Colonist. 


-•;-   ,     "•_*,,' 


Photo  by  Bradley. 


MAP  OF  THE  BERMUDAS. 


Photo  by  Grantham. 


THE  BERMUDA  HUNT  CLUB. 


.A  Bermuda  Fairy  Tale 

Where  the  fairies  are  playing 
Around  Shelly  Bay — 

For  the  children  are  fairies, 
As  every  one  knows 

Who  lives  in  "  the  Land 

Of  the  Lily  and  Rose"— 

And  where  't  is  the  custom, 
Ah,  yes,  quite  the  rage 

For  school-going  children 
To  ride  on  the  stage, 

On  a  stage  which  runs  round 
Through  a  beautiful  gorge 

From  Hamilton  town 

To  the  town  of  Saint  George. 

Now  once  in  my  travels 
A  few  months  ago, 

I  rode  on  that  stage, 

As  you  very  well  know, 

And  there  like  two  pictures 
Perched  up  on  the  seat 


14          -A  Bermuda  Fairy  Tale 

Were  two  lovely  Fairies- 
Miss  Helen  and  "Rete." 

The  driver  he  knew  them ! 
The  horses  did  too, 

For  they  wagged  their  old  tails, 
Seemed  to  say,  "How  de  do  ?" 

And  the  gay  blushing  flowers 
All  nodded  that  day 

As  we  travelled  along 
To  fair  Shelly  Bay. 

The  sunbeams  were  waving 
Gay  banners  of  gold 

In  that  land  of  enchantment 
As  onward  we  rolled, 

And  the  people  we  met 

In  those  flower-clad  miles 

All  seemed  to  salute  us 

With  showers  of — smiles. 

They  knew  that  the  Fairies 
That  day  were  at  hand, 


"     "  .  "     ... 


BERMUDA  FAIRIES. 


.A.  Bermuda  Fairy  Tale  15 

As  we  all  rode  along 

Through  a  real  Fairy  Land, 

Where  the  roses  and  lilies 
And  rare  cedar  trees 

Forever  are  wooed 

By  the  purest  of  seas; 

Where  the  "bee  banquets  on 

Through  a  whole  year  of  flowers, " 

And  life  is  a  dream 

Amidst  glad  golden  hours; 

Where  spotless  white  houses 
Deck  the  coral  reef  sod, 

And  rare  birds  abide 

In  the  gardens  of  God. 

But  do  you  remember, 
My  dear  little  sprites, 

That  coral-gemmed  Eden 
The  fair  "Isle  of  Wight's," 

Where  we  watched  the  great  vessels 
Work  in  through  the  west 


1 6  A  Bermuda  Fairy  Tale 

From  far-away  lands, 

To  your  dream-land  of  rest  ? 

Where  we  all  went  fishing 

And  you  caught  some  whales, 

Just  the  same  as  the  children 
In  real  fairy  tales? 

And  where  we  went  swimming, 
And  Donald  did  too, 

And  Helen  got  frightened  ? — 
You  know  this  is  true ! 

Yes,  yes,  she  was  frightened, 
Because,  I  suppose, 

Some  wicked  old  mermaid 
Was  pinching  her  toes ; 

For  the  wonderful  mermaids, 
The  sea  nymphs  with  curls, 

Who  live  in  the  water, 
All  like  little  girls. 

So  when  you  go  swimming 
Mind  what  you  're  about, 


t^nfeK*  -j  ».  JT-        ,   T         fr  -     *,  \  ^\  *    * 

WWfi^ 


BERMUDA  FAIRIES. 


A.  Bernvuda  Fairy  Tale 

For  the  mermaids  will  catch  you 
Unless  you  watch  out. 

And  they  will  carry  you  off 
To  their  coral-bound  caves, 

Far  away  from  your  mother, 

Down,  down,  'neath  the  waves, 

Where  the  sea-serpent  dwells 
With  the  child-eating  shark, 

And  the  devil-fish  swims 

And  it's  dismal  and  dark; 

Where  ghosts  and  bad  giants 
Are  drifting  around, 

To  catch  naughty  children 

Who  sometimes  are — drowned. 

So  mind  the  good  Sisters 

Who  manage  your  school, 

And  try  to  live  up 

To  the  great  Golden  Rule, 

And  mind  your  dear  parents, 
And  never  do  wrong. 


1 8  .A  Bermxida  Fairy  Tale 

But  bless  you,  my  fairies, 
This  tale  is  too  long; 

Hence  I  think  I  must  stop 
Till  we  four  shall  meet, 

So  good-bye,  dear  Helen 

And  Donald  and  "  Rete." 

NEW  YORK,  Dec.,  1906. 


A  BERMUDA  REVERIE 

WHEN  the  soft  silver  hair  of  the  moon  is 
uncurled, 
There  are  visions  and  dreams  of  that  far-away 

world; 

We  can  hear  the  low  lull  of  the  waters  that  roar 
On  the  Morning-kissed  sands  of  Eternity's  shore, 
And  fainter — from  farther — there  echoes  along 
The  angelic  sigh  of  an  infinite  song. 
For  dear  voices  come,  soft,  sad,  sweet,  and  low 
From  the  shadowy  vales  of  the  dim  long-ago. 
Then  the  pale  lilies  weep,  and  lonely  winds  sigh 
Since  life  is — a  tear — a  smile — and  good-bye! 

We  all  must  soon  sail  for  that  silence  profound, 
Far,  far,  from  the   Dreamlands  of  Harrington 

Sound. 

Past  deep  Castle  Harbour  our  vessels  shall  be 
Adrift  and  alone  on  a  harbourless  sea. 
No  light  of  Saint  David's  shall  show  us  the  way 
On  that  last  lonely  reach  o'er  Oblivion's  Bay, 
19 


20  .A.  Bermuda  Reverie 

Where  spectre  barks  drift  and  haunted  winds 

sigh 

Near  pale  coral  reefs  of  that  dim  Bye-and-Bye. 
Yet  the  Master  has  told  us,  and  so  it  must  be, 
When  the  last  trumpet  sounds  "there  shall  be 

no  more  sea." 
There 's  a  dawn  in  the  East,  past  rainbows  of 

Quest, 
When  the  battle  is  o'er,  where  the  weary  may 

rest. 

Beyond  the  last  twilight  of  life,  far  away, 
The  sun  shall  arise  o'er  a  limitless  day; 
Past  shadows  of  trouble  and  cloudlands  of  care 
There  are  mansions  of  light  in  God's  Over-There. 
So  what  does  it  matter — life's  worry  and  grief  ? 
The  journey  o'er  lowland  and  river  is  brief. 
Let  us  sow  a  few  seeds — and  sing  as  we  sow — 
And  do  the  kind  thing  wherever  we  go; 
With  lilies  of  love  and  joy's  roses  and  smiles 
Let  us  make  life  an  Eden — to-day — in  these  Isles ! 


Photo  by  Bradley. 


MULLET  BAY,  ST.  GEORGE'S. 


Bagot,  Photo. 

HARRINGTON  SOUND  "NATIVES" — CAUGHT  NEAR  "THE  LODGE." 


LINES  TO  SOME  BERMUDA  LADIES  WHO 
KINDLY  SENT  PUNCH,  CAKE,  AND 
VALENTINES  TO  THE  POET  RANCH 
MAN  AT  CHURCH  BAY* 

THE  PUNCH 

EXCUSE  us,  fair  ladies,  for  the  pleasure  we 
take 

In  thanking  you  here  for  the  gifts  and  the  cake. 
The  punch  is  delicious,  sweet  liquid  sunshine, 
A  cordial  for  angels — pure  nectar  divine. 
Great  Homer  has  sung  of  the  vintage  of  old, 
But  here 's  to  Bermuda's  gay  drink  of  pure  gold! 
Rare  rum  from  the  Indies  illumines  its  smile, 
Which  topers  declare  is  far  "smoother  than — 

ile." 

The  fruits  of  the  Tropics  and  spices  combined 
Are  blended  in  thee,  by  all  artists  refined; 
The  milk  of  pure  kindness  dwells  deep  in  thy 

heart 
And  soothes  every  soul  with  rare  infinite  art. 

1  From  the  Bermuda  Colonist,  February  19,  1908. 
21 


22  THe   CaKe 

The  knights  of  Barbados  make  "swizzles"   in 

vain, — 
Milk  punch  stands  unmatched  on  the  old  Spanish 

Main. 

The  Outerbridge  blend  we  believe  is  the  best,— 
'T  is  a  drink  for  the  gods  in  this  dreamland  of 

rest. 
Tom  Moore  would  have  loved  it  in  brave  days 

of  yore — 
Your  health,  gentle  ladies,  and  here  's  to  Tom 

Moore! 


THE  CAKE 

The  cake — ah,  the  cake! — 't  was  delicious  and 

good — 

A  gift  from  an  angel — yes,  real  angel's  food! 
"Elijah  was  fed  by  the  ravens,"  they  say, 
But  angels  feed  bards  in  Bermuda's  Church  Bay. 
And  angels  who  came  to  our  cedar  grove  strand, 
With  brave  buccaneers,  declared  the  cake  grand. 
You  cannot  imagine  the  pleasure  we  had 
In  cutting  that  cake  and — just  eating,  bedad! 
One  gay  jolly  captain  who  rode  on  his  wheel 
Charged  chocolate-creamed  ramparts  and  won  a 

square  meal. 


Photo  by  Bradley. 


ST.  GEORGE'S. 


CATHEDRAL  ROCKS — SOMERSET. 


THe  CaKe 


23 


A  knight  named  "Sir  Arthur,"  who  hails  from 

the  West, 

After  four  chocolate  charges  unlimbered  his  vest, 
And  later  we  saw  him  alone — with  a  flower — 
Yes,  Robb-ed  of  his  heart  in  our  cute  "kissing 

bower. " 
That  bower's  a  dream!    You  shall  see  it  some 

day — 
If  you  deign  to  examine  the  charms  of  Church 

Bay. 

But  bold  "Kissing  Bugs"  are  now  flying  around 
The  Bachelor's  Lodge,  on  fair  Harrington  Sound ; 
E.  Partridge,  the  marksman,  who  came  pen  in 

hand 

To  shoot  up  our  follies,  avowed  the  cake  grand; 
Sir  "Hastings"  and  "Horace"  were  present,  't  is 

true, 

With  sweet  Spark-ling  ladies  who  cut  the  cake  too. 
And  Hilda,  our  collie,  of  course  she  was  there, 
And  gravely  ate  cake  from  her  seat  on  a  chair. 
When  meals  at  the  Lodge  are  all  ready  to  eat 
Miss  Hilda  appears  and  takes  a  front  seat, 
Right  up  at  the  table,  where  her  wistful  eyes 

shine 
And  show  that  our  doggie  is  waiting  to  dine. 


24  XKe  "Valentines 

THE  VALENTINES 

To  the  lasses  who  penned  us  the  sweet  valentines, 
We  send  them  our  heart  tied  up  in  these  lines, 
And  though  it  is  leap  year,  as  you  have  well  said, 
Just  a  word  of  advice  if  you  really  must  wed. 
Don't  marry  a  poet — a  bard  will  not  do 
As  a  husband,  or  slave,  for  such  angels  as  you. 
All  women  court  comfort,  want  wealth  and  good 

meals; 

Most  poets  go  hungry;  they  live  on — ideals! 
They  never  have  mansions — for  cash  they  don't 

care; 

Their  wealth  is  in  fancy — their  castles  in  air. 
"All  bards  are  like  turkeys,"  the  Colonist  said: 
Better  known  and  more  loved — when  they  are  all 

dead. 

Oatmeal  and  fresh  water  and  LOVE,  we  are  told, 
Was  the  diet  of  bards  in  the  brave  days  of  old; 
They  had  no  sea  gardens,  or  Davis  at  hand 
To  furnish  them  food  in  this  real  fairy  land ; 
With  goings  to  Gosling's  and  Thompson's — en 

flight— 

And  Burrows',  we  conquer  our  fierce  appetite! 
Doctor  Anderson's  cocktails  at  the  Princess  Hotel 
Don't  soothe  a  real  poet, — they  made  him  unwell; 


CRYSTAL  CAVE. 


JOYCE'S  CAVE. 


XHe  Valentines  25 

But  the  doctor's  all  right — little  shy   on   the 

clime, 

Yet  it  "will  be  warmer,"  dear  Doctor,  some  time. 
The  shackles  of  marriage,  alas,  would  be  hard 
If  you  were  yoked  up  to  a  star-gazing  bard; 
So  take  our  advice,  it  is  true  and  it 's  fine: 
Don't!  don't!  take  a  bard  for  your  real  valentine. 
Just  marry  some  fellow  with  feet  on  the  ground, 
Some  Lord  of  Creation — or  Harrington  Sound. 
There  are  lots  of  good  chappies  more  worthy 

than  we 
Who  would  make  better  husbands,  as  you  shall 

soon  see. 
Most  "poets  are  fickle"  and  "wicked" — they 

say — 
There 's  a  divil's  own  cherub  up  here  at  Church 

Bay. 
We  are  "vain  and  conceited" — Miss   Know-it 

says  so; 
She  knows  everything,  so  of   course  she  must 

know. 

"All  poets  are  crazy" — of  course  this  is  true, — 
T  is  a  wild  crazy  fellow  that 's  writing  to  you. 
Bards  like  simple  things,  they  are  creatures  of 

moods, 
Who  love  the  wild  sea  and  the  lone  solitudes, 


26  THe  Valentines 

And  sometimes  at  midnight  midst  darkness  and 

gloom 

They  go  to  a  church-yard  to  muse  by  a  tomb ; 
They  are  cross,  gloomy  fellows,  unworthy,  't  is 

true, 

To  ever  aspire  to  angels — like  you. 
So  don't  marry  poets!    Now  it  surely  is  clear 
I  am  losing  all  chance  for  this  lovely  leap  year, 
But  I  've  told  you  the  truth,  dear  ladies  divine, 
Don't — don't — choose    a    bard    for    your    real 

valentine. 


"Larry's  Lodge,"  Church  Bay, 

Bermuda,  February  14,  1908, 
Valentine's  Day. 


Courtesy  of  Rudder  Publishing  Co. 

THE  WINNING  YACHT 


'TAMERLANE.  " 


Weiss,  Photo. 


THE  "  LYSISTRATA.  " 


BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  NO.  4 

THE  SOUTH  SHORE 

S-ONG  leagues  of  emerald  splendor  here  woo 
a  lovely  land 
0-f  oleandered  beauty  and  purest 

coral  sand; 
U-pon    the  sun-kissed   headlands  the    zephyrs 

wander  free, 
T-elling  the  listening  lilies  the 

poems  of  the  sea; 
H-ere  Nature  paints  rare  pictures  of  immortality. 

S-ad  echoes, — mournful   dirges, — surround    this 

Southern  Shore, 
H-aunting  the  cedared  silence  with  sighs  of — 

never  more; 
0-ut  in  the  azure  offing   the  wondrous  water 

gleams, 
R-esplendent  with   God's    jewels    and    Time's 

eternal  beams; 
E-nchantment  wooes  the  vistas  and   lulls  the 

soul  to  dreams. 

27 


J 


BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  NO.  5 
JOYCE'S  CAVE 

-AGGED   and  weird  are  its   wonders,  rare, 

haunted,  profuse  and  profound, 
0-utdoing  the  art  of  the  ancients,  dreams  this 

great  Masterpiece  underground; 
Y-ears,  aye — yes,  for  ages  and  aeons — the  slow 

silent  chisels  of  Time 
C-arved  there  in  a  gallery  of  Beauty  real  statues 

and  etchings  sublime, 
E-nduring  as  unwooed  Carrara,  as  spotless  and 

pure  as  the  snow, 
S-trange  phantoms  and  visions  abide  there  'midst 

dreams  of  the  lost  long  ago. 

C-lear  lagoons  of  water  have  wedded  this  mar 
vellous  cave  to  the  seas, 

A-nd  underground  islands  of  marble  gleam  there 
in  a  harbor  of  ease. 

V-ain,  vain  are  mere  words  in  describing  this 
wonderful  sight  'neath  the  sod — 

E-nchantment  abounds  in  the  chambers  of  this 

grand  silent  castle  of  God. 

28 


THE  OCEAN  YACHT  RACE* 

NEW   YORK   TO    BERMUDA 

ALL  hail  the  dauntless  Tamerlane, 
Her  crew,  and  Fleming  Day! 
The  winners  of  the  ocean  race 
To  proud  Bermuda's  Bay. 

Through  lonely  leagues  and   weary   nights 

That  gallant  craft  has  sped, 
To  emerald  seas  and  glory  rare, 

Off  old  St.  David's  Head. 

And  then  straight  on  through  Grassy  Bay 
Close-hauled  and  snug  and  tight, 

She  sought  the  realms  of  Fairy  Land, 
Right  off  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

Where  now  the  fluttering  sea-birds'  cries 

Are  echoing  far  and  near, 
"The  Tamerlane  has  crossed  the  bar, 

Bold  Fleming  Day  is  here." 

i  From  the  New  York  Herald,  June  5,  1906. 
29 


3o  THe  Ocean  "YacHt  Race 

A  yachtsman  of  the  Seven  Seas, 
The  bard  whom  we  recall— 

The  author  of  "Ten  Thousand  Sail" 
"And  swiftest  of  them  all!" 


BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  NO.  6 

TO  THE  LYSISTRATA 

MR.    JAMES   GORDON    BENNETT'S   YACHT,    VISITING 
BERMUDA 

L-ARGE  craft  of  grace  and  power,  proud  Prin 
cess  of  the  Sea, 
Y-ou  are  a  great  creation.     All  hail, 

we  say,  to  thee! 
S-wift  as  a  snowy  petrel,  you  skim  the  Ocean's 

breast, 
I-nspiring  all  beholders,  where'er  you  chance  to 

rest. 
S-taunch  as  an  ocean  liner,  or  galleon 

rare  of  old, 
T-hou  art  indeed  a  picture,  a  dream  of  white 

and  gold. 
R-are   taste   and   art  and  splendor  are  lavishly 

bestowed, 
A-nd  everything  is  perfect  in  this  Press  King's 

abode. 
T-he  whispering  air  is  fettered  to  echo  thoughts 

from  thee, 

A-nd  so  is  every  science,  thou  conqueror  of  the 
sea. 

31 


LAFFERTY'S  BERMUDA  LETTER 

Mr.  Patrick  Lafferty,  an  Irish  gentleman  now  in 
Bermuda,  writes  to  his  old  friend  Mr.  Dooley, 
the  famous  Chicago  philosopher.  Lafferty' s 
words  about  Bermuda,  the  auto  car,  Mark 
Twain,  "  Mr.  Ruse  Felt,"  and  other  notables 
are  faithfully  and  correctly  reported  by  Larry 
Chittenden,  poet  ranchman,  as  follows: 

ME  dear  frind  Mister  Dooley — Oi'm  sendin' 
yez  a  line 

To  tell  yez  ov  me  travels:  Bedad,  Bermuda's  fine; 
Such   lovely   radiant   islands — grand    views   on 

every  hand — 

A  region  of  enchantment — a  flowery  fairy-land. 
No  other  place  is  like  it,  for  here,  bedad,  we  find 
The  Isles  of  Maine,  the  Indies,  and  Italy  com 
bined. 
And    oh,    such    wondrous    waters — old    Erin's 

emerald  green, 

'Mid  peacock  blues  and  sapphires — the  purest 
ever  seen. 

32 


"OuR  BAILEY'S  BAY  POST-OFFICE. 


Potter,  Photo. 


BAILEY'S  BAY  TENNIS  CLUB. 


Lafferty's  Bermuda  Letter       33 

No  man  can  ever  paint  them,  nor  words  can  ever 

name 
Bermuda's   wondrous   pictures — all   in   a   coral 

frame; 
And  yet  the  Artist  Farnum,  now  on  the  Isle 

of  Wight, 
May  make  this  land  immortal:  his  work  is  "out 

of  sight." 
When  Nature  brewed  her  rainbows  she  mixed 

her  colors  grand 
Upon    a   gorgeous   palette   in   fair    Bermuda's 

land; 
Wid  brushes   made  of   palm  trees  she  drew  a 

canvas  bold, 
Then  framed  it  round  wid  cedar  and  sunset  seas 

of  gold. 

She  studied  art  in  caverns — God's  castles  under 
ground — 

Wid  miles  of  lovely  lilies  and  onions  all  around. 
The  air  is  pure  and  bracing,  the  trees  are  ever 

green, 

The  houses  are  of  coral — the  cleanest  ever  seen ; 
Each  one  has  some  attractions — all  charming 

Oi  confess — 
Neat    castles    of    contentment — real    homes    of 

happiness. 


34        Lafferty's  Bermxida  Letter 

In  simple  kindly  fashion,  the  people  live  along 
On  tourists,  flowers,  and  onions,  and  life  is  one 

sweet  song. 
Our  old  frind  Cecil  Tucker  is  now  Postmaster 

here; 
McCallan  his  assistant  will  help  him  mail  good 

cheer. 

Our  Baileys  Bay  Post  Office  is  in  a  parlor  fine, 
Where  Mr.   North   and   daughter  deliver   us — 

sunshine ! 
Bermuda 's   a  grand  country — a   lovely   parlor 

land — 
And  here  we  common  peopull  can  view  the  great 

and  grand: 
Mark  Twain   arrayed   and   hatless  wid   Rogers 

rides  in  state; 
Wid  wit  and  oil  and  money,  Bermuda  should 

be  great. 
Mark's  giving  us  great  lectures — chuck  full  of 

human  light; 
Faith,  every  one  should  hear  him  this  coming 

Thursday  night. 
Oi  'm  told  that  our  Big  Baker  just  now  has 

wondrous  schemes. 
Shure  Ed  is  a  born  magnate — wid  rale  Thomp- 

sonian  dreams. 


Farnum,  Photos. 


"HILDA"  AND  HER  FRIENDS. 


Lafferty's  Bermuda  Letter        35 

Up-Town  Sinclair  is  writing  a  grand  immortal 

fake 
About  our  Social  Sinners,  our  Tennis  Teas  and 

Cake; 
And  here  we  have  a  poet,  a  crazy  chap  they 

say, 

Who  lives  amongst  the   tombstones  and  mer 
maids  of  Church  Bay. 

Some  citizens  are  making  a  lot  of  auto  "noise," 
P'r'aps  they  have  livery  stables  which  every  one 

employs. 
A  study  of  this  business  (?)  some  wondrous  things 

reveals — 
Some  hidden  combinations — the  wheels  within 

the  wheels. 

This  herding  up  the  tourists  in  dear  old  Hamilton 
So  livery  men   can   bleed    them   is   too  much 

overdone; 
Yet  now  the  "House  of  Wisdom"  is  favoring  the 

steeds: 
Autos  with  dose  restrictions  are  what  Bermuda 

needs. 
About   4000   people   have   used    the    Spurling 

cars 
This  season  in  Bermuda  without  much  hurt  or 

scars; 


36  Lafferty's  Bermuda  Letter 

One  doctor  got  some  bruises — some  onions  had 

a  fall- 
Some  skeery  folks  were  frightened — much  talk, 

but  that  was  all. 
Because  a  few  spoiled  horses  may  shy  or  prick 

their  ears 
Must  Progress  be  forbidden  and  stopped,  alas, 

for  years? 

And  must  our  patient  people  now  pay  3000  pounds 
To  buy  up  all  the  autos  upon  Bermuda's  grounds? 
Arrah  there,  don't  be  talking — Oi  know  what 

Oi  'm  about — 
Bermuda  needs  cheap  transit  to  move  the  people 

out; 

To  take  them  to  St.  George's  and  far-off  Somerset 
Lest  many  good  Bermudians  their  old-time  friends 

forget. 
All  hail  the  Scarlet  Runner!  let 's  have  at  least 

five  more — 
With    careful,   thoughtful    drivers — when    this 

great  din  is  o'er. 

Then  when  the  war  is  over — as  it  will  be  some 

day — 
Let 's  know  each  other  better  when  mists  have 

rolled  away; 


Lafferty's  Bermuda  Letter        37 

Let 's  banish  all  bad  feeling,  and  do  the  best 

we  can 
To  live  that  great  religion — the  Brotherhood  of 

man. 
Life  here  should  be  a  poem,  and,  though  it  now 

is  Lent, 
The    Bos'un    Birds   are   feasting  in   islands  of 

content. 
There 's  no  place  like  Bermuda — this  Eden  of  the 

Sea 
Is  just  an  earthly  Heaven — where  every  one 

seems  free; 
Here  is  no  White  Man's  Burden  or  hatred  of  one 

race; 
Each  lives  and  has  his  being  in  his  appointed 

place. 
The  blacks  are  all  respectful,  can  read,  and  are 

polite — 
Here  when  at  eve  you  pass  them  they  always 

say  "Good-night!" 
Shure,  Dooley  dear,  Oi'm  thinking  the  British 

folks  are  wise 

In  their  administrations — John  Bull  can  colonize! 
Oi  know  the  old  West  Indies — have  lived  in 

England,  Doo, 
And  been  a  close  observer  of  British  justice  too, 


38       I_afferty's  Bermuda  Letter 

Until  somehow  Oi  'm  thinking  that  British  laws 

are  just 
And  that  our  Yankee  freedom  just  now  is  all  a 

Trust; 
Wid    crooks    and    politicians,    Big    Sticks    in 

Printer's  Ink, 
And   Lawson  and  The  System,  U.  S.  is  on  the 

blink. 
There  's  too  much  White  House  Thunder — when 

will  it  ever  cease? 

Our  Presidential  Barnum  should  give  his  coun 
try  peace! 
But  Uncle  Sam  will  prosper,  in  spite  of  slips 

and  screeds. 

Intercommunication  is  what  Bermuda  needs — 
The  auto  or  the  trolley,  it 's  all  the  same  to  me — 
Cheap  rides  for  all  the  people — that 's  what  says 

LAFFERTY. 

Bermuda  Colonist,  April  4,  1908. 


Constable,  Photo. 


"LARRY'S  LODGE. 


Constable,  Photo. 


INTERIOR  OF  LODGE. 


TO  A  LITTLE  BERMUDA  GIRL  WHO  GAVE 
ME  HER  COLLIE  DOG 

MY  dear  little  Joan,  I  send  you  a  line 
To  tell  you  of  "Hilda."— Your  doggie  is 

fine! 

After  leaving  your  Papa  and  Mamma  that  day, 
With  Gosling's  dog  biscuits  we  started  away 
And  caught  the  old  stage  which  runs  through 

the  gorge 

From  Hamilton  town  to  the  town  of  Saint  George. 
Brave  Hilda  sat  with  me  upon  the  front  seat, 
Where  she  wagged  her  proud  tail,  looking  saucy 

and  neat. 

The  passengers  smiled  and  the  gay  driver  said, 
"That  is  a  wise  dog,  sah, — she  has  a  fine  head." 
And  one  lovely  lady — let 's  call  her  Miss  B. — 
Said,  "What  a  nice  collie — please  give  her  to  me." 
But  Hilda,  she  barked — she  seemed  to  say  "No! 
Bow  wow!  Miss — I  thank  you.  Ged  ap— let  us 

go!" 

So  off  we  all  started,  midst  good-byes  and  smiles; 
Then  the  lean  horses  ate  up  the  evergreen  miles 

39 


40         To  a  Little  Bermuda  Girl 

Till  Dorothy  Lindsey,  who  saw  us  go  by, 
Clapped  her  cute  little  hands  and  just  shouted, 

"Oh,  my!" 
The    twilight  was  weaving    rare    banners    of 

gold 
Through  this  land  of  enchantments  as  onward 

we  rolled, 

And  far  in  the  distance  the  gates  of  the  West 
Swung  wide  their  grand  portals  to  dreamlands 

of  rest. 
Then  Hilda  she  dreamed  of  two  soft  eyes  of 

blue 
And   a  dear   little  girl:   it  must  have  been — 

you! 

At  last  after  crossing  a  beautiful  ridge, 
We  came  to  the  home  of  Miss  A.  Outerbridge, 
Who  likes  all  good  doggies   and  has  a   kind 

heart, 

And  there  we  alighted  to  make  a  new  start. 
Right  there  we  found  children — Miss  Helen  and 

Lee, 

With  Ely — all  Jellifies — and  waiting  for  tea. 
They  gave  us  such  welcomes,  and  Helen's  brown 

eyes 
Just   sparkled   and   danced   with   delight    and 

surprise. 


SCENES  NEAR  LODGE. 


To  a  Little  Bermuda  Girl         41 

Then  the  children  all  promised  to  wander  around 
To  the  new  home  of  Hilda  on  Harrington  Sound. 


It 's  a  marvellous  realm  and  we  want  you  to  come 
And  see  us  some  day  in  our  white  coral  home. 
Hilda  owns  the  whole  house  and  she  sleeps  on 

the  floor, 
And  would  you  believe  it? — Miss  Hilda   can 

snore. 
Our  Jesssie  she  likes  her — and    my   she    likes 

"Jess"— 

For  Jess  is  the  servant  who  feeds  her — "I  guess"! 
Mr.  Potter,  my  neighbor,  who  lives  very  near, 
And  knows  about  ranching,  says  Hilda 's  a  deer. 
She  really  is  dear,  and  has  eyes  like  a  fawn, — 
E.  P.  Roe  took  her  picture  last  week  on  the 

lawn. 

"  Kernal"  Ellis  and  ladies  who  happened  around 
Said  Hilda  was  queen  of  all  Harrington  Sound. 
So  don't  you  feel  sorry  or  sigh  for  your  dog, 
But  just  come  and  see  her  and  sit  on  my  log, 
My  log  'neath  the  cedars  which  grow  chocolate 

creams 
And  cookies  and  cakes  that  are  Thompsonesque 

dreams. 


42       To  a  Little   Bermuda  Girl 

She  will  take  you  in  bathing  and  show  you  a 

trick, 
How  she  jumps  in  the  water  and  swims  with  a 

stick. 

I  will  give  you  a  grotto  where  fairies  reside 
In  a  submarine  garden  well  tilled  by  the  tide. 
There   are  marvellous  flowers   and   jewels   and 

pearls, 

And  wonderful  mermaids  with  beautiful  curls; 
'Neath  the  emerald  water,  down,  down  'neath 

the  waves 
There  are  all  kinds  of  Joyce's  and  Wilkinson's 

caves. 

But  if  you  get  tired — perhaps  you  can  have  tea 
In  a  humming-bird's  bower  with  Hilda  and  me! 
So  come  along  soon,  Miss  Joan,  don't  dodge — 
We  all  want  to  see  you  out  here  at  the  Lodge. 


Photos  by  Roe. 


CHURCH  BAY  ETCHINGS. 


BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  NO.  7 

ST.  GEORGE 

S-URROUNDED   by  etchings   of    nature,    it 
dreams  on  the  heights  of  the  sea, 
A-  modernized  castle  of  comfort,  a  Mecca  for 

you  and  for  me. 
I-f  the  gallant  old  tars  of  Bermuda  could  come 

from  the  lost  long  ago, 
N-o  doubt  they  would  stare  at  the  progress,  for 

the  Sea  Venture  now  is  not  slow ! 
T-  is  a  craft  where  old  ship  mates  may  gather, 

a  haunt  which  all  tourists  should  know. 

G-ood  will  is  the  way  in  Saint  George's,  where 

the  natives  all  study  to  please; 
E-ach  stranger  is  welcomed  with  kindness  and 

feted  with  sailings  and  teas. 
0-h,  this  is  a  town  for  ye  poets!  ah,  here  we 

don't  have  to  disgorge, 
R-ah!  rah!  for  the  rare  Somers  Islands!  three 

cheers  for  the  sons  of  Saint  George! 
G-ood  luck  to  the  realms  of  Bermuda,  the  Land 

of  the  Lily  and  Rose, 
E-ach  day  is  her  loveliness  dearer — each  hour 

a  dream  of  repose. 

43 


"LARRY'S  LODGE" 

'TH  IS  a  dear  little  place  in  a  grove  by  the  sea, 
1      Where  the  birds  and  the  fairies  are  living 

with  me. 
The  lonely  stars  love  it,  and  the  proud  cedar 

trees 

Are  full  of  sad  music — the  sigh  of  the  seas; 
The  old  Abbott's  Cliff  leans  aloft  to  the  skies 
In  this  lily-clad  realm  of  a  lost  Paradise. 
Here  the  Bos'un  Birds  come,  and  the  sea-gulls, 

they  say, 

Have  wonderful  concerts  at  times  in  Church  Bay. 
Ah,  the  church  is  a  picture — a  poem  of  old — 
A  song  with  a  sermon,  close,  close  to  the  mold 
Where  the  lost  dreamers  sleep  'neath  the  coral- 
gemmed  sod 
Since  their  spirits  have  gone  to  the  gardens  of 

God— 

The  beautiful  gardens  beyond  the  dark  tomb, 
Where  the  roses  and  lilies  eternally  bloom. 
When  the  soft  silver  hair  of  the  moon  is  uncurled 
There  are  visions  and  dreams  of  that  far-away 
world ; 

44 


"  Larry's  Lodge  "  45 

We  can  hear  the  low  lull  of  the  waters  that 

roar 

On  the  silver-kissed  sands  of  Eternity's  shore, 
Where  spectre  barks  drift  through  a  silence 

profound — 
'T  is  a  harbor  of  dreams  is  fair  Harrington  Sound. 

Yet  long,  long  ago,  in  the  brave  vanished  years 
This  Bay  bore  the  barks  of  the  bold  Buccaneers, 
And  to-day  their  wild  hearts  haunt  the  winds 

and  the  rain 

And  spectres  appear  from  the  old  Spanish  Main. 
Hard  by  on  Hall's  Island  rare  treasures  were  hid 
By  that  Croesus  of  pirates — the  great  Captain 

Kidd. 
La  Fitte  the  bronzed  Creole  oft  sailed  through 

the  gorge 
And  anchored  his  barks  in  the  bays  of  Saint 

George; 
To-day,  near  Moore's  Mansion,  strange  verdure 

appears 

Which  tells  of  the  Tropics  and  sly  Buccaneers, 
Who  planted  weird  creepers  and  vines  all  around 
To  hide  their  retreats  in  the  caves  underground. 
Near  there  it  is  said,  a  refuge  was  made 
By  contraband  vessels  which  ran  the  blockade. 


46  "Larry's  Lodge" 

A  gunboat  was  built  on  Church  Point  in  Church 

Bay 
And  the  ways  of  that  boat  are  observed  here 

to-day. 

Here  Chapman,  a  colonel,  of  Great  Britain's  best, 
Has  planted  bright  blooms  round  ye  Poet's  rare 

Rest; 

Where  the  Governor  came,  all  forgetful  of  State, 
And  dreamed  in  the  grove  past  the  little  white 

gate; 

Where  artists  like  Alden,  and  editors  grim, 
And  children  and  mermaids  all  come  for  a  swim. 
Here  yachtsmen,  like   Beiling  and  Stryker  and 

Day, 
Have  loafed  with  their  souls  and  ye  Bard  of 

Church  Bay. 

Here  Potter  takes  Photos — artistically  too — 
And  p'r'aps,  gentle  reader,  some  day  he  '11  take 

you, 

If  you  visit  the  Lodge  in  a  grove  by  the  sea 
Where  the  birds  and  the  muses  are  living  with  me, 
Where  the  lone  Abbott's  Cliff  leans  aloft  to  the 

skies 
In  this  lily-clad  realm  of  a  lost  Paradise. 


CHURCH  BAY  ETCHINGS. 


BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  NO.  9 

CHURCH  BAY 

C-ALM  in  its  sylvan  beauty  it  dreams  midst 
emerald  seas. 
H-ere  all  is  rest  and   quiet — a  real 

Hesperides, 
U-nvexed  by  noise  or  rabbles,  far  from  the  city's 

throng; 
R-are  echoes  haunt  the  silence  in  this  pure  realm 

of  song. 
C-oncealed  'neath  palms  and  lilies,  lost  in  pale 

homes  of  sleep, 

H-ere  dwell  God's  quiet  dreamers,  who  neither 
work  nor  weep. 

B-eside  the  purest  waters,  beneath   the  softest 

skies, 
A-  steadfast  spire  is  pointing  the  paths  to 

Paradise. 
Y-ea,  this  is  an  Elysium — a  shrine  where  Memory 

sighs. 


47 


BERMUDA  ETCHINGS,  NO.  10 

THE  BOS'UN  BIRD 

B -RIGHT-WINGED  dream  of  beauty,  since 
you  again  appear 

O-n  fair  Bermuda's  islands,  we  know  that  spring 
is  here. 

S-wift  as  the  stormy  petrel,  you  fly  across  the 
skies, 

U-ntamed  and  loved  forever,  Sea-bird  of  Para 
dise; 

N-ew  hopes  attend  your  coming,  new  dreams  with 
you  arise. 

B-ermuda  well  might  claim  thee,  and  yet  thy 
flight  is  far 

I-n  warmer  tropic  countries  where  loyal  trade- 
winds  are. 

R-are  is  thy  graceful  beauty,  thou  "  long-tail "  of 
the  sea. 

D-elighting  all  beholders,  blithe  bird  of  Purity. 


".•> 


Bushell's  Handbook. 


YACHTS.     HAMILTON  HARBOR. 


Busheil. 


REGATTA  DAY — ix  HARBOR. 


BERMUDA'S  GUARDIANS 
"THE  FORTY-SIXTH  CORNWALL" 

ALL  hail  Bermuda's  guardians — her  soldiers 
great  and  small, 
Bronzed    bulwarks    of    the    British    Isles — The 

Forty-Sixth  Cornwall. 
They  fought  and  won  a  score  of  fights — then 

trecked  ten  thousand  miles, 
To  where  they  win  the  people's  hearts  in  all  the 

Fairy    Isles. 
Their  bugles  are  a-blowing  now — their  flags  are 

well  displayed; 
The  Forty-Sixth  is  at  Prospect— her  men  are  on 

parade. 
No  "absent-minded  Beggars"  here — but  soldiers 

one  and  all, 
Bermuda's  gallant  guardians — The  Forty-Sixth 

Cornwall — 
Her  officers  and  Tommies  too — we  offer  them  our 

hand — 
That  valiant  jolly  regiment  with  CHAPMAN  in 

command. 

4  49 


50  Bermuda's  Guardians 

The  genial  Chap — a  fighter,  yes — built  on  a  gen 
erous  plan, 
Who  wielding  sword  and  brush  and  pen  is  every 

inch — a  man! 
To  Captains   FARGUS,  KIRK,  and  DENE,  STE- 

RICKER,  TAYLORS  two, 
The  Majors  three,  Lieutenants  all,  we  dip  our 

flag  to  you. 
The  Yankee  flag  of  Uncle  Sam — and  here 's  our 

Texas  cheers, 
For  Colonel  WRIGHT  and  Major  YOUNG — The 

Royal  Engineers! 
To  BAGOT,  CONNER,  FULLER,  DAY — The  Royal 

Garrison — 

The    Chaplains — Surgeons — Service    Corps — sa 
lutes  for  every  one. 
And  here 's  to  General  WODEHOUSE  gone  to  fill 

a  big  recall, 
Commander  now  in  India — the  best  beloved  of 

all. 
Loud  volleys  for  the  Governor — a  FIVE-CLASP 

medal  man, 
Who  ruled  the  Nile,  controlled  Khartoum,  and 

fields  South  African. 
To  Colonels   BAKER — S.  FREW-EN  and  Captain 

NICHOLSON 


I 


Photos  by  Weiss,  Potter,  and  Bradley. 

BERMUDA'S  GALLANT  GUARDIANS:     THE  FORTY-SIXTH  CORNWALL. 


Bermuda's  Guardians  51 

The  "R.  G.  A's" — Militiamen,  salutes  for  every 

one. 
Bermuda's   gallant   guardians — no  matter  who 

ye  are — 
Old  Uncle  Sam  salutes  you  all  and  says — hip! 

hip!  hurrah! — 
The  bugles  are  a-blowing  now — the  flags  are  well 

displayed — 
Some  valiant  sons  of  Albion's  Isle — to-day  are 

on  parade. 
Hence  in   this  flowery,  lovely  land — we  here 

salute  them  all, 

Bronzed  bulwarks  of  the  Fairy  Isles— The  Forty- 
Sixth  Cornwall. 


GOOD-BYE 

nPO-DAY,  Little  Girl,  your  note  has  come, 

And  with  it  the  South  Wind's  sigh. 
There  is  much  to  be  said,  but  my  lips  are  dumb; 
I  am  not  surprised,  though  my  heart  is  numb — 
Good-bye,  Little  Girl,  good-bye. 

The  sad  old  sea  sings  a  song  to-day, 

The  song  of  a  lost  soul's  cry; 
The  billows  moan,  and  they  seem  to  say, 
"Farewell,  we  must  part  and  go  our  way" — 

Good-bye,  Little  Girl,  good-bye. 

The  dream  I  had  was  wondrous  fair, 

But  alas!  it  was  all  a — lie; 
Yet  fancy  clings  to  a  dream  more  rare, 
And   I   shall  find  mine  own — somewhere — 

Good-bye,  Little  Girl — good-bye. 

We  never  met,  though  we  thought  we  did, 

And  now  it  were  vain  to  try; 
From  each  to  each  our  souls  are  hid, 
And  future  meetings  the  fates  forbid — 

Good-bye,  Little  Girl — good-bye. 

52 


STEAMER  "BERMUDIAN,"  OUTWARD  BOUND. 


STEAMER  "PRINCE  GEORGE,"  ENTERING  ST.  GEORGE'S  HARBOR. 


Good-Bye  53 

No  matter  that  time  for  me  brings  rue, 

May  your  life  be  glad  and  high; 
May  all  your  hopes  and  dreams  come  true 
And  all  your  friends  be  proud  of  you — 
Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye ! 


BELLE  HARBOR,  N.  Y., 
July  29,  '06. 


RETURNING  TO  THE  RANCH 

WELL,  fellers,  I  've  got  home  agin,  and  hit 
seems  sorty  strange 
To  mosey  roun'  the  ole  corrals  on  this   hyar 

lonely  range. 
This  evenin'  az  the  sun  went  down,  and  I  cum 

up  the  trail, 
An*  seen  our  little  low-roofed  house  a  squattin' 

in  the  vale, 
An'  when  I  struck  the  brandin'  pens  and  heered 

old  Pinto's  barks, 
An*  listened  at  the  cagey  Jack  and  them  ole 

medder  larks, 
Then  when  I  looked  at  Skinout  Hills  a- veiled  in 

purple  air, 
The  twilight  seemed  to  smile  at  me  an'  glow  a 

welcom'  there. 
An'  when  I  seen  the  S.  B.  brand,  an'  that  ole 

sorghum  stack, 
Them  saddles  hangin'  by  the  door,  hit  seemed 

like  gittin'  back; 

54 


Returning  to  tHe  RancH          55 

But  when  I  viewed  thet  pided  steer,  and  heered 

yer  had  no  rain, 
I  knowed  thet  I  hed  hit  the  ranch,  hed  shore  got 

home  again ! 


I  've  seen  a  heep  uv  plezzant  things,  and  yet  hit 

did  me  good 
Ter  spy  ole  Jim  in  his  ole  jeans  jest  packin'  in 

the  wood ! 
An'  thar  was  Buck  an'  Horse-shoe  Sam,  an'  thar 

upon  the  still, 
All  smiles  an'  spurs  an'  high-heeled  boots,  wuz 

russler  Windy  Bill. 
Oh,  Bill,  they  say,  hez  got  renown,  an'  perhaps 

you  may  recall 
How  he  performed  one  Christmas  time  an'  led  the 

"cowboys'  ball." 
Then  az  I  crossed  the  littered  yard  and  pulled 

the  lazy  latch, 
An*  seen  them  ole  termater  cans,  I  knowed  't  was 

livin'  batch. 

An'  when  I  ate  them  unblessed  beans  and  lin 
gered  round  the  pork, 
I  thought  of  London's  tabble  dotes  and  dinners 

in  New  York; 


56          Returning  to  the  RancH 

But  when  I  chose  some  soggy  bread,  and  seen  the 

fellers  look, 
I  knowed  thet  I  wuz  home  agen — thet  Windy 

Bill  was  cook! 


Well,  ez  we  sot  around  the  fire  and  heered  the 

coyotes'  cries, 
And  listened   at  the  owl's  hoo-oo,  I  told  some 

whoppin'  lies. 
Yes;  while  the  boys  chawed  navy-plug,  I  lied 

an'  yarned  about 
My  travels  over  land  an'  sea  until  their  eyes 

bugged  out. 
At  last  the  boys  rared  back  to  talk,  an  Hash 

Knife  showed  his  hat, 
An'  then  I  heered  of  maverick  steers,  an'  kyort, 

an'  sech  az  that. 
They  joked  about  a  shootin'  scrape,  an'  John 

who  laid  in  jail, 
An*  then  they  cussed  the  Deestrick  Judge  fer 

not  acceptin'  bail. 
At  last  old  Horse-shoe  blurted  out  from  off  his 

blanket  bed — 
"  I  reckon  that  yer  heered  about  yer  yeller  mare 

wot's — dead? 


Returning  to  tKe  RancH          57 

She  was  a  right  peert  little  hoss,  chuck  full  uv 

grit  and  pride; 
But  she  got  puny  when  yer  left,  and  then  she 

up  an'  died!" 


Ah!  then  somehow  a  silence  cum,  an'  in  the 

chirnbly  there, 
I   sorty  kep'   a  seem'   her — that    little    yeller 

mare! 

I  thought  about  them  tricks  an'  ways,  her  hon 
est,  faithful  eyes, 
Until  the  moanin'  midnight  wind  wuz  jest  a 

wailin'  sighs! 
I  never  hed  a  friend  like  her,  so  activ',  sure,  an' 

true; 
No  matter  what  the  bizness  wuz,  she  'd  allers 

pull  yer  through. 
An'  onct  at  night  she  saved  my  life — outran  a 

prairie  fire; 
An'  ez  fer  swimmin'  swollen  streams,  uv  thet 

she  'd  never  tire. 
An'  often  on  the  starlit  plains,  where  we  the 

night  would  pass, 
I  've  heered  that  mare  a  munchin'  songs  out  in 

the  needle  grass. 


58          Returning  to  tKe  RancH 

Oh!  when  I  cross  the  dark  divide  fer  pastures 

over  there 
I  hope  I  '11  find  that  little  hoss,  my  dear  ole 

yeller  mare. 


Well,  all  ter  onct,  while  studdyin'  on,  I  heered 

ole  Windy  snore! 
Ah!  then  I  knowed  I  'd  hit  the  ranch!  I  'd  done 

got  home  fer  shore. 


WHERE  THE  WOODPECKER  KNOCKS  ON 
THE  DOOR 

YES,  fellers,  I  'm  back  at  the  old  ranch  again, 
the  place  that  I  feel  is  so  dear, 
'Mongst  the  coyotes  and  rabbits  and  prairie  dogs 

vain,  and  methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here, 
Where  the  birds  are  all  singing  around  on  the 

trees,  and  the  owls  are  calling  tu-whoo! 
Ah,   there 's  music   to  me   in   the   soft-sighing 

breeze,  and  the  northers  are  musical,  too. 
You  may  talk  of  the  pleasures  and  joys  of  the  rich, 

your  oprees  and  parties  so  gay, 
But  I  don't  keer  a  fig  fur  them  things  an'  all  sich, 

fur  yer  see  I  'm  not  built  thet  'er  way. 
Hit  don't  make  much  difference  what  any  one  says 

'bout  the  pleasures  of  life  in  New  York, 
But  for  simon  pure  pleasure  an'  wild  nature's 

ways,  jest  give  me  my  ranch  on  the  Fork. 
For  here  we  're  all  happy,  away  from  the  throngs, 

far  away  in  the  lone  solitudes, 
Where  the  voices  of  Nature  are  full  of  sweet  songs, 

full  of  music  that  matches  all  moods; 

59 


60  "WHere  tHe  "WoodpecKer  KnocKs 

And  oft  in  the  morning,  the  bright  Texas  morn, 
when  our  dreams  of  the  night  are  all  o'er, 

We  awake  from  our  slumbers,  as  sure  as  you  're 
born,  by  the  woodpecker's  knock  on  the 
door. 

Now,  the  people  out  here  who  attend  to  the  ranch 

and  rustle  the  outfit  and  herds 
Don't  put  on  much  style  or  keer  for  Long  Branch, 

but  they  keer  for  us  boys  and  the  birds. 
They  are  kind  to  all  critters,  as  you  may  suppose. 

The  'possums  sleep  under  the  house. 
The  coyotes  are  friendly,  as  each  chicken  knows. 

We  have  prairie  dogs  tame  as  a  mouse. 
The  martins  are  nesting  all  under  the  eaves.  The 

beef  steers  go  nosing  around. 
The  house  is  wide  open.    No  danger  of  thieves — 

there  's  nothing  to  steal  that  I  've  found. 
The  heelflies  make  love  to  the  heifers  and  cows. 

The  blackbirds  just  love  that  old  steer. 
We  're  at  peace  with  the  world,  and  away  from  all 

rows — oh,  I  tell  you,  we  're  happy  out  here ! 
Yet  oft  in  the  summer  the  rattlesnakes  come  to 

sleep  in  the  shade  of  the  yard; 
But  the  dogs  wake  them  up  till  their  rattles  just 

hum — ah,  the  snakegressor's  way  is  so  hard ! 


WHere  tHe  Woodpecker  HnocKs  61 

Still  the  best  thing  of  all  and  the  sound  that  I 
love  is  that  music  I  've  mentioned  before; 

It  is  sweeter  to  me  than  the  song  of  the  dove — is 
that  woodpecker's  knock  on  the  door. 

Oh,  this  gay  speckled  bird  is  an  old  friend  of 

mine,    for    here  is   just  where   he  was 

born. 
He  drinks  from  the  bucket — our  water  is  fine — 

and  he  runs  the  whole  ranch  every  morn. 
He  hops  to  the  kitchen,  stands  in  with  the  cook, 

in  his  knowing  old  woodpecker  way; 
But  if  she  don't  feed  him,  he  gives  her  a  look,  and 

then  he  just  hammers  his  lay. 
"A  rap  a  tap  tap,  a  tap  tap  a  tap  tup!"    I  must 

have  my  breakfast,  you  see. 
You  people  are  lazy.     It 's  time  to  get  up!     "A 

rap  a  tap,  tap  a  tap,  tap — tee!" 
Oh,  I  tell  you  that  bird  is  a  knowing  old  cuss. 

He  shows  it  with  many  a  proof; 
And  he  makes  a  big  racket  and  terrible  fuss  when 

he  hammers  away  on  the  roof. 
"A  rap  a  tap,  tap  a  tap,  tap  a  tap — tit" — these 

shingles,  boys,  never  will  do. 
They  are  full  of  wood  insects.    They  '11  have  to 

be  split — "a  rap  a  tap,  tap  a  tap  too." 


62  WKere  tKe  "WoodpecKer  RnocKs 

Yes,  I  tell  you,  he  knows,  that  sapsucker  bird, 

just  what  that  old  roof  has  in  store. 
Ah  me!  we   have  music  which  you  may  have 

heard,  where  the  woodpecker  knocks  on 

the  door. 
We  don't  envy  "Teddy"  his  strenuous  strife. 

We  hope  he  won't  get  in  a  fix; 
But  we  're  stuck  on  the  free  easy  West  Texas  life, 

far  away  from  machine  poly-ticks. 
Now,  speaking  of  "ticks" — you  know  what   I 

mean — we  don't  have  those  varmints  out 

here. 
Though  I  've  heered  they  was  kotched  down  in 

old  Abilene  on  a  Bar  Y  C  Circle  F  steer. 
Our  cattle  are  healthy.    We  're  over  the  line. 

Jones  County  from  fever  is  free. 
Our  crops  are  immense.    Wheat  and  cotton  are 

fine,  but  the  nesters  are  close  herding  me. 
Now,  I  am  a  stockman  who  has  a  big  range;  but 

"the  man  with  the  hoe"  is  about. 
The  country  's  all  fenced.    There  has  come  a  big 

change.   The  ranchman  will  have  to  git  out. 
The  farmers  are  smiling.    There  's  plenty  of  rain. 

Our  new  town  of  Stamford  is  grand. 
They  say  that  old  "  Anson  will  shore  git  the  train  " 

— and  the  settlers  is  wanting  more  land. 


Constable,  Photo. 


CHURCH  BAY  CHURCH. 


Bushell's  Handbook. 


ISLAND  MEMORIES. 


"WKere  tHe  "WoodpecKer  KnocKs  63 

I  suppose  we  will  have  to  gear  up  and  go  west, 

pull  our  freight  for  the  foot  of  the  Plains, 
Where  the  prairie  dog  sneezes  and  pulls  down 

his  vest  and  the  jackrabbit  prays  for  the 

rains. 
But  no  matter  what  happens,  wherever  we  go, 

we  shall  think  of  old  S  Forty-Four, 
That  ranch  on  old  Skin  Out — which  you  perhaps 

know — where  the  woodpecker  knocks  on 

the  door. 

Chittenden's  Ranch,  Anson,  Tex., 

April,  1901. 
From  Galveston-Dallas  News. 


RECIPROCITY 

PAUL  and  I  as  friends  were  noted 
Till  we  met  the  fair  Miss  Kate; 
Then,  as  rivals,  both  devoted, 
All  our  friendship  turned  to  hate. 

Well,  at  last  he  won  my  treasure, 
They  were  married  in  the  fall; 

Matrimony  seemed  such  pleasure — 
How  I  envied  happy  Paul! 

Years  have  passed — poor  Paul  looks  weary; 

I  am  single,  gay,  and  free; 
Matrimony  proved  so  dreary — 

Heavens,  how  Paul  envies  me! 


Roe,  Photo. 

"THE  STRENUOUS  LIFE":  "COME  IN,  TEDDY,  THE  WATER'S  FINE." 


YE  BARD'S  EXIT. 


A  VISION 

WHAT  DID  THE  LADY  DO? 

AT  midnight  sad  and  lonely,  within  a  haunted 
room, 

Midst  Hope's  lost  shattered  idols,  and  Memory's 
gathering  gloom, 

While  spectral  phantoms  whispered  thoughts  of 
the  shadowy  shore 

And  ghosts  of  wrecked  ambitions  suggested — 
Nevermore — 

We  had  a  wondrous  vision,  a  dream  which 
cannot  die, 

A  rare  immortal  picture,  in  mansions  of  the  sky. 

Above  the  morn's  projections,  beyond  the  loneli 
est  star, 

Love  sketched  a  glorious  etching,  we  viewed  it 
from  afar. 

We  saw  a  great-souled  woman,  with  glorious  ear 
nest  eyes, 

Holding  the  keys  to  heaven,  at  gates  of  Paradise. 

5  65 


66  A,  Vision 

Pure  as  some  chaste  Madonna,  proud  as  a  queen 

of  state, 
Saint  Peter  might  have  wooed  her,  up  there  at 

heaven's  gate. 
And  there  were  countless  lovers — alone,  unloved, 

apart, 
Who  sought  to  pass  the  portals — the  heavens  of 

her  heart. 


Some  titled  men  approached  her,  and  knights 

from  everywhere; 
All  failed  to  gain  admission,  they  could  not  enter 

there. 
And  then  those  weary  wanderers,  from  whom  all 

hope  had  fled, 
Departed  sad  and  humbled — "She  has  no  heart," 

they  said. 
"She  lives  but  for  ambition,  she  dwells  too  far 

above 
The  lowly  ken  of  mortals — she  does  not  care  for 

love." 
At  last  an  humble  singer,  a  bard  arrived  too 

late, 
All    travel-worn    and    weary — approached    fair 

heaven's  gate. 


.A.  Vision  67 

He  did  not  try  to  enter,  but,  ah,  he  lingered 
long, 

And  then  at  last  at  twilight,  he  hummed  an 
ardent  song. 

The  song  was  unpretentious,  but  filled  with 
earnest  words, 

And  music  of  the  prairies,  and  notes  of  mocking 
birds; 

Twas  plaintive,  sad,  and  pensive,  and  yet  at 
times  't  was  free 

And  full  of  nature's  music,  and  echoes  of  the  Sea. 


It  whispered  of  the  flowers,  pure  kissed  with 
summer  rain, 

And,  though  it  never  murmured,  it  breathed  of 
echoed  pain. 

It  told  an  old,  old  story — a  glorious  song  of  youth, 

The  hopes  and  dreams  of  mortals,  and,  ah,  it 
thrilled  with  truth! 

At  last  some  angels  heard  it;  their  harps  re 
sounded  then — 

"This  is  an  earnest  singer,  he  loves  his  fellow-men. 

His  heart  beats  high,  but  kindly,  his  music  is 
sincere, 

And  since  his  soul  is  weary,  he  ought  to  enter  here. 


68  A.  Vision 

We  pray  you,  good  Saint  Peter,  and  that  proud 

Lady  there, 
Admit  the  lonely  singer,  and  free  his  heart  from 

care." 
But  then  the  vision  faded,  and  now  amidst  life's 

din 

We  wonder  if  she  listened  and  let  the  singer  in. 
Since  angels  heard  the  music  so  sweet  and  sad 

and  true 
And  pleaded  for  the  singer — What  did  the  Lady 

do? 


ft  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete  Catalogues  »en> 
on  application 


A  SELECTION  OF  FIFTY 
PRESS   OPINIONS   OF   "RANCH  VERSES." 


"  Ranch  Verses"  are  tuneful,  manly  in  sentiment  and  musi 
cal  in  flow.  They  have  a  right  cheerful  tone,  and  are  full  of 
spirit  and  vivacity.  The  joy  of  existence  and  the  sense  of 
perfect  sympathy  for  free  and  tameless  nature  animate  Mr. 
Chittenden's  lyrics. — London  Saturday  Review, 

The  ballads  and  character  sketches  inspired  by  life  in  the 
Lone  Star  State  have  the  genuine  ring.  They  are  worthy  of 
a  place  beside  those  of  Riley,  Field,  Harte,  and  Miller.  Mr. 
Chittenden's  versification  is  musical,  fashioned  by  that  true 
art  which  conceals  art.  A  picture  of  the  Ranch,  and  other 
illustrations,  and  the  appropriate  cover,  help  the  appearance 
of  the  book. — Review  of  Reviews. 

"  Ranch  Verses  "  have  a  catching  cheerfulness,  and  are  in 
teresting  as  the  expression  of  feelings  widespread  in  the  great 
American  democracy.  They  are  all  bright,  fluent,  and  read 
able. — Edinburgh  (Scotland)  Scotsman. 

Once  in  a  while  the  wanderer  through  the  desert  of  printed 
verse  chances  upon  an  oasis  where  everything  in  sight  is  nat 
ural,  human  and  refreshing.  Such  an  experience  may  be 
gained  by  a  perusal  of  Mr.  Chittenden's  book — a  volume  which 
is  nowhere  pretentious,  although  everything  in  it  is  sincere. 
Chittenden's  spirit  is  both  fanciful  and  sentimental,  without 
ever  being  mawkish  or  coarse. — John  Habberton  in  Godeys 
Magazine. 

' '  Ranch  Verses  "  is  the  modest  title  of  a  book  of  very  clever 
harum-scarum  sort  of  mixed  singing — curious  and  entertain 
ing.  "  Neptune's  Steeds  "  is  an  excellent  lyric — a  piece  that 
Longfellow  might  have  written.  Mr.  Chittenden's  volume  is 
sure  to  become  a  favorite. — Glasgow  (Scotland)  Herald. 

The  breezy  life,  the  dashing  free  spirit,  the  kiss  of  wander 
ing  winds,  the  sight  of  lofty  mountain  peaks,  now  the  gladness 
of  a  song,  now  the  pathos  of  a  poem,  will  win  from  readers 
old  and  young  unstinted  praise  and  warm  eulogy.  The  bold 
intellect  of  the  author,  tempered  by  culture  and  refinement, 
has  produced  a  volume  that  must  bring  him  fame. — Public 
Opinion. 


Ranch  Verses. 

"  Ranch  Verses"  will  meet  with  admirers,  not  so  much  on 
account  of  their  poetic  excellence  as  owing  to  the  air  of  free 
dom  that  permeates  the  entire  volume,  yet  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  there  are  rich,  sympathetic,  elevating  touches  in  Mr. 
Chittenden's  verses. —  Toronto  (Canada)  Globe. 

This  volume  contains  much  genial  information  about  Texas  ; 
the  cowboys,  round-ups,  etc.  One  must  really  attach  value  to 
this  book. — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

Mr.  Chittenden  has  done  his  work  carefully — we  can  hear 
the  cyclone  rushing  by,  and  we  feel  that  ranch  life  has  a  good 
deal  that  is  enticing  in  it  when  we  read  such  lines  as  "  The 
Cowboys'  Christmas  Ball."  Mr.  Chittenden  writes  very 
pleasing  verses,  and  we  are  glad  to  have  his  book. — N.  Y. 
Herald. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  and  readable  books  of  poetry 
ever  published. — N.  Y.  Press. 

"Ranch  Verses"  will  be  found  to  be  agreeable  and  in 
genious. — N.  Y.  Sun. 

' '  Ranch  Verses  "  possess  a  power,  a  richness  of  humor,  a 
force  of  expression,  and  a  jingling  music  which  are  simply  de 
lightful. — Brooklyn  Standard-  Union. 

' '  Ranch  Verses  "  are  interesting.  The  author  versifies 
pleasantly  on  all  subjects,  people,  and  scenes,  from  Cape  Ann 
and  Bar  Harbor  to  Anson,  Texas. — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

The  pieces  are  excellent.  A  vein  of  beauty,  simplicity,  and 
a  careless  sort  of  style  suggest  breezes  from  the  staked  Plains 
and  the  hills  of  the  Guadaloupe. — N.  Y.  Independent. 

There  is  originality  and  spontaneity  of  inspiration  in  some 
of  the  pieces  contained  in  a  volume  entitled  "  Ranch  Verses," 
by  "Larry"  Chittenden,  which  reproduces  here  and  there 
something  of  the  fresh  air  and  the  wild  life  of  the  prairies.— 
London  (England)  Times. 

The  Cowboys  have  not  had  long  to  wait  for  their  poet.  The 
joys  and  sorrows  of  the  ranchmen,  their  life  on  the  lonely 
plains  under  the  open  sky,  find  adequate  expression  in  this 
volume  of  creditable  verse. — London  Publishers'  Circular. 

One  of  Mr.  Chittenden's  best  pieces  is  "Neptune's  Steeds," 
not  one  of  the  best  is  where  he  endeavors  to  chaff  Mr.  Kipling. 
But  we  are  never  quite  out  of  charity  with  Chittenden,  except 
when  he  rhymes  Alice  to  palace. — Manchester  (England) 
Guardian. 

The  dialect  poems  are  worthy  to  stand  beside  those  of 
Bret  Harte  and  Riley. — New  Orleans  Times-Democrat. 


Press  Opinions. 

"  Ranch  Verses"  have  a  swing  and  dash  and  a  rare  fresh 
ness. — Boston  Literary  World. 

Very  pretty  verses,  and  very  comprehensive.—  N.  Y.  World. 

The  best  metrical  description  of  ranch  life  ever  published. 
— N.  Y.  Evening  Telegram. 

"  Ranch  Verses  "  show  freshness  of  themes  and  considerable 
cleverness.  The  gallop  of  a  broncho  seems  to  have  got  into 
the  lines.  "  Majah  Green"  and  "The  Cowboys'  Christmas 
Ball  "  are  good  examples  of  pure  American  humor. — N.  Y. 
Recorder. 

Chittenden's  Ranch  is  a  home  of  the  muses.  It  has  de 
veloped  a  high  order  of  prairie  poems. — N.  Y.  Home  Journal. 

"  Ranch  Verses"  is  a  worthy  and  very  welcome  contribu 
tion  to  our  best  American  poetical  literature.  Mr.  Chittenden's 
verse  flows  with  an  ease,  freedom,  and  vigor  that  are  very 
attractive,  and  almost  invariably  it  is  marked  by  true  poetic 
genius  and  scholarly  carefulness. — Boston  Home  Journal. 

A  most  charming  book  of  poetry.  Mr.  Chittenden  is  a 
genuine  poet.  His  poems  have  touch,  insight,  rhythm,  and 
merit  which  ought  to  be  recognized. — Boston  Traveller. 

There  is  considerable  descriptive  power  in  "  Ranch  Verses," 
and  they  have  a  swing  and  force  which  is  very  agreeable. 
The  book  deserves  approbation. — Boston  Congregationalist. 

"Ranch  Verses"  have  a  wild  native  flavor  which  is 
agreeable  to  the  taste.  The  author  has  a  cheerful  spirit, 
he  possesses  considerable  originality,  and  has  the  knack  of 
turning  off  stanzas  with  accuracy  and  ease. — Philadelphia 
ledger. 

Many  of  Mr.  Chittenden's  poems  possess  divine  fire,  and 
there  is  a  certain  sweetness,  simplicity,  and  freshness  about 
them  which  gives  them  an  unusual  charm.  The  opening 
poem,  "  Hidden,"  is  worthy  of  Tennyson  or  Longfellow.  It 
is  a  beautiful  volume. — National  Tribune. 

A  volume  of  poems  which  will  fully  entertain  lovers  of  song. 
It  is  in  great  variety,  and  capitally  rendered.  Mr.  Chittenden 
is  a  born  poet ;  his  songs  seem  to  flow  as  naturally  as  that  of 
the  birds  of  his  hills  and  mountains  and  valleys. — Chicago 
Inter-Ocean. 

Chittenden's  poems  have  a  swing  about  them  which  is  very 
attractive.  He  gives  us  Flemish  pictures  of  Texas  life,  the 
realism  of  which  is  never  vulgar,  and  the  habit  of  which  is 
rich,  rare,  and  racy. — Chicago  Post. 


Ranch  Verses. 

Mr.  Chittenden  has  won  and  deservedly  retains  the  title 
of  "Poet  Ranchman."  His  book  will  make  the  name  of 
Chittenden  a  household  word  in  thousands  of  homes  long  after 
his  pilgrimage  among  men  has  ended,  and  it  will  secure  for  its 
talented  author  a  conspicuous  place  among  the  most  deserving 
verse  writers  of  the  country. — Chicago  Sun  and  Drover's 
Journal. 

"  Ranch  Verses  "  are  pleasant,  and  have  the  spirit  of  a  free 
and  breezy  life.  Beyond  the  limits  of  Western  dialect  the 
best  poem  is  one  entitled  "  The  Vikings  of  Cape  Ann,"  a  song 
to  the  Gloucester  fishermen.  It  is  spirited  and  natural,  with 
the  genuine  poetic  instinct  in  it. — Chicago  Times. 

The  "  Poet  Ranchman"  has  rounded  up  a  very  choice  cok 
lection  of  his  verses.  Variety  is  the  soul  of  it  all,  and  the 
spice  of  life  pervades  it. — St.  Louis  Republic. 

"  Ranch  Verses"  are  full  of  the  true  spirit  of  poetry. — 
Scranton  (Penn.J  Truth. 

There  are  some  charming  gems  of  verse  in  this  volume,  well 
worth  the  rich  setting  they  enjoy. — Cincinnati  Enquirer. 

We  cannot  help  feeling  that  East  and  West  there  will  be  a 
good  many  pleased  readers  of  a  volume  of  poems  called 
"  Ranch  Verses."  Chittenden  is  genuine,  and  his  verses  have 
the  true  flavor  of  the  soil. — Detroit  Free  Press. 

The  book  contains  an  excellent  collection  of  versification, 
and  will  certainly  fill  a  place  in  the  vast  field  of  poetic  litera 
ture. — Burlington  Hawkeye. 

A  very  pretty  volume,  and  very  pretty  verses.  Some  of  the 
poems  are  really  fine,  true  of  metre,  lofty  of  conception,  and 
felicitous  of  expression. — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

Chittenden's  muse  has  a  fresh,  sweet  note  of  her  own,  both 
musical  and  graceful. — Charleston  News  and  Courier. 

In  nearly  everything  Mr.  Chittenden  writes  there  is  a  breath 
of  the  prairie  and  sight  of  the  open  sky.  Has  vitalized  the 
jolliest,  the  best  scenes  and  sentiments  of  Western  life,  and 
placed  the  West  on  a  higher  plane  than  previous  conceptions 
and  old  descriptions  intimated.  Infinitely  better  in  design 
and  quality  than  Bret  Harte. — Galveston-Dallas  News. 

The  public  is  to  be  congratulated  that  Mr.  Chittenden's 
poems  have  been  gathered  into  permanent  form.  With  the 
hand  of  a  lover  he  has  painted  a  thousand  pictures  as  clear  and 
true  as  ever  shone  on  artist's  canvas.  Nature's  vibrant  chords 
echo  through  everything  the  "  Poet  Ranchman  "  has  written. 
--Houston  (  TexJ  Post. 


Press  Opinions. 

We  like  the  volume,  and  are  pleased  to  commend  it  for 
its  literary  merit,  its  subjects  of  interest,  and  strong  moral 
teaching. — San  Antonio  (Tex.)  Express. 

' '  Ranch  Verses  "  are  none  of  them  long ;  they  are  varied  in 
style,  and  differ  widely  in  choice  of  theme ;  many  are  local, 
others  purely  sentimental,  and  some  are  extremely  pathetic. 
The  versatility  of  the  ' '  Poet  Ranchman's  "  genius  is  too  well 
known  to  need  further  comment. — Fort  Worth  (  Tex.)  Gazette. 

There  is  a  sense  of  freedom  and  a  note  of  the  untrammelled 
in  "  Ranch  Verses."  One  may  almost  hear  the  whistling  of 
the  Northers  and  the  dismal  howling  of  the  coyotes  in  ' '  The 
Cowboys'  Christmas  Ball." — Louisville  Courier -Journal. 

The  characteristic  notes  struck  in  "Ranch  Verses"  are 
pride  in  manliness,  love  of  the  natural,  and  scorn  of  the  arti 
ficial.  Through  all  the  lines  there  is  a  practical,  healthy  view 
of  life  and  duty. — Richmond  (  V a.)  Dispatch. 

The  scope  of  "  Ranch  Verses  "  is  from  Maine  to  Florida, 
from  Hell  Gate  to  the  Golden  Gale.— Monte  lair  (N.  J.) 
Times. 

"  Ranch  Verses"  are  sure  to  prove  a  blessing  to  the  blase" 
readers  of  modern  poems. — Montclair  ( N.  J.)  Herald. 

"  Ranch  Verses"  is  a  book  filled  with  vivid  pictures  of  the 
round-ups,  the  herds,  the  songs  of  ranchmen,  and  Christmases 
of  the  cowboys,  done  in  verse,  not  of  the  Browning  style  of 
incoherent  utterings.  No  !  Chittenden's  poetry  is  of  the 
practical  sort.  He  strikes  the  lyre  with  the  stout  right  arm  of 
a  genuine  free-born  American.  A  man  who  roams  at  will  the 
vast  prairies  and  sleeps  at  night  gazing  at  the  myriad  stars  of 
the  whole  heavens  is  not  given  to  writing  twaddle.  Let 
Book  Notes  advise  you  to  buy  this  clever  book. — Rider's  Book 
Notes. 

This  book  is  much  more  than  the  title  implies,  and  it  is  bright 
and  entertaining  from  cover  to  cover.  A  volume  that  one  may 
open  at  random  and  be  sure  to  find  something  interesting  and 
worth  reading. — American  Bookseller. 

The  whole  book  teems  with  life  of  the  healthiest  kind. 
Every  page  is  interesting,  and  worthy  of  Bret  Harte  and  Field. 
We  cannot  do  better  than  recommend  "  Ranch  Verses." — 
N.  Y.  Electrical  Review. 

Texas  has  a  poet  of  whom  she  may  well  be  proud.  The 
muses  were  dispensing  their  best  gifts  when  they  threw  their 
spell  on  "  Larry  "  Chittenden.—  Peck's  Sun. 


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